01.05. Friendship and its Responsibilities

Friendship and its Responsibilities

If it is true that "love is power," then it is no less true that power involves responsibility. Every talent is to be accounted for, to Him who has bestowed it — and there is none more weighty than that which has been entrusted to the keeping of every human being — the power of loving. Other talents are distributed (and for wise reasons) with an unequal hand — but the power of loving is given alike to all. Even as the joyous sunshine, which rests so lovingly both upon the rich palace — and the poor cottage; on the quiet valley — and the rugged mountainside. The heart that dwells within a royal mansion may throb beneath a queenly robe — but it differs in nothing from that of the lowly maiden who fills her pitcher at the village well. One invisible chain encircles them both; and, though its links are silken — they are none the less strong. It is the love which thrills in every human bosom, like some delicate flower blooming in the midst of desolation, a relic of beauty departed.

Hence, however, arises the responsibility. All can love — therefore all can influence. And not only so, but all must influence. It is a necessity of their being, inseparable from their very existence. Consciously or unconsciously — all must attach others to themselves, and draw them with them on their way, whether it is upwards or downwards. It is a solemn thought, which may well make us pause and tremble, as we inquire, "If those I love were to follow my guidance — then where should I lead them?" Oh! where? But it is not of influence generally that we would speak. It is a wide subject, on which we cannot at present enter. We would touch only upon the influence of our friendships.

Perhaps, among all earthly blessings, there is none greater than that of Christian friendship. Assuredly there is none which brings with it a greater amount of happiness. And the friendships of the young are true, for young hearts entwine around each other like clasping tendrils; and, in after years, when time and change have done their work, the recollection of early attachments is still laid up in memory’s holiest place. On what hours is it that our thoughts love best to linger? Is it not on those which we have spent in days gone by, with friends who, it may be, have long gone from us to their long home. Their memory is with us still, and steals back upon our wearied spirits like a blessing from above. And when, in the summer twilight, or around the winter hearth, we converse together of the things which belong to our peace; when we speak of the home to which we go, and of the Friend on whose arm we lean by the way; when eye meets eye in the glance of kindly sympathy, the language of thoughts too deep for speech; when words die away into silence, and each spirit is solemnized by the felt presence of an unseen Savior — do we not feel that the present "communion of saints" on earth is, indeed, a type and earnest of their future communion, where the spirits of the just shall be made perfect? Do not our hearts glow with gratitude, as we take from the Savior’s loving hand a blessing which He himself has consecrated? for it is written, that "Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus."

Yes, there is joy in earthly love — but also there is responsibility. It is to be feared that we do not sufficiently remember this. We look upon our friendships too much as the things of time, forgetting that they are but the links of a chain which stretches forward into eternity! How much may depend upon the forming, or not forming, of a single acquaintance! How greatly may the circle of our influence be widened and opened out by it! How vast may be its results for the future, our own and that of others, both here and hereafter!

Surely we have need to pray that our friendships may be sanctified, that our Father’s approving smile may rest upon them, and that they may strengthen and stir us up in our journey Zionwards!

Among the greatest responsibilities of friendship, we must reckon the correspondence which it involves. There are many people, useful and well-meaning, who imagine that letter-writing is a mere waste of time. And so, indeed, it is, and must be — if restricted to empty compliments and heartless formality; or, if it is nothing more than even the expression of deep and heartfelt affection, or the interchange of thought on the passing events of this world. Surely it is unworthy of immortal beings thus to fritter away precious hours, which all the wealth of worlds can never buy back again — in recording with deliberate earnestness the airy trifles of common life! But letter-writing may be turned into work for God. Through it, we may deliver a message of earnest warning to those who are still afar off from Him, which He, to whom the weakness of the instrument is as nothing — may make a sharp shaft winged from His quiver! Absence, and the tender feelings called up by the sight of well-known hand-writing, will give it greater force, and it may be the means by which the Good Shepherd will bring some straying wanderer back to His fold. And though it may be carelessly read and hastily thrown aside, and may seem to produce no effect until long years have passed away, when, perhaps we ourselves are laid in the quiet "sleeping place" — yet the bread that was cast upon the waters in prayer and faith shall surely be found to the Savior’s glory, though after many days. And whether or not our efforts are thus blessed, our own souls are delivered from "blood-guiltiness."

Again, in the midst of all the "changes and chances of this mortal life," in the heavy weight of woes which often presses so sorely upon sorrowing humanity, the letters which we write may be as cups of cold water, by which some fainting one may be refreshed and braced for the difficulties of the journey. Can we not all remember the time when a letter has been to us as a gleam of sunshine on a dark and dreary day, bringing just the message which our souls most needed, so that we could not but recognize in it the over-ruling hand of a gracious Father?

"Letters," says one now gone to her rest, "are God’s messengers, awakening, comforting, and refreshing the world-wearied and the sorrowful — if we will only send them forth in His name, and write them with a single eye to His glory. In this life we may never know the good that they do — but we shall know it in the life to come, while thankfully ascribing it to God’s grace."

There are some to whom correspondence seems to be assigned as a special mission. God has put into their hands, the pen of a ready writer, which He has commanded them to use for Him. Let them not seem or despise their work because it seems of small importance. It is that which their Master gives — and this makes it true and holy. Though they may be prevented from the performance of active duty — they may yet, as they pass through the world, write words of counsel and encouragement which many an aching heart shall bless. Only let them do it simply and lovingly, not seeking to exalt self, but to glorify their Savior, and to "build up" others in their "most holy faith." Let them not forget fervently to pray that they may be taught both what to say, and how to say it — and that God would be pleased to speak through them, that which He would have spoken. Without this, all their efforts will be of no avail.

And, surely, the letters of those who profess to be "strangers and pilgrims on the earth," should never be without a word of the place which is to be their permanent abode! The time and strength with which they are written, are not our own — they belong to Him who lived, and died, and rose again, that we might henceforth live, not unto ourselves, but unto Him. Let us not, then, in this matter, be unmindful of the Apostolic injunction, "Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do — do all to the glory of God!" Henceforth, reader, let your letters be "sanctified by the Word of God, and by prayer." Nor must the necessity for firm — yet gentle faithfulness in reproof, be omitted in our enumeration of the responsibilities attendant upon friendship. It is one which is but seldom acknowledged in practice, since it involves the performance of a painful duty. Still, when Christian principle demands it — we must not shrink back. The love which would allow the fault or the error of a friend to pass unnoticed, from a fear of giving pain — is, at best, but a refined kind of selfishness. Better to inflict a temporary wound, than to permit the formation of a gangrene which may endanger spiritual life! Better, far better, to risk coldness and displeasure, nay, even the loss of affection — than to have a soul required at our hands. But such a result need scarcely be feared, at least where the friendship has been formed "in the Lord." If it has not, its loss need hardly be regretted. On the other hand, however, the utmost caution is needed before entering on an office so delicate as that of a Mentor. We must beware that our accusation is well grounded; that the fault of our friend has not been exaggerated by that many-tongued report which is the author of so much mischief in social and domestic life. And, "considering ourselves, lest we also be tempted," let us do all in the fullness of that charity which "think no evil" — but which, in spite of unpromising appearances, "believes and hopes all things."

Let us despise no tact, no sympathy, no grace of manner — which may make an unwelcome message the more acceptable, so that love may be enabled to heal the wound which love is compelled to inflict.

Above all, let us seek for more of the mind that was in Him, who, while he hated the sin — yet yearned in unutterable tenderness over the sinner, conveying the assurance of pardon in the very look which sealed a sense of guilt upon the conscience.

We have spoken incidentally of sympathy — -not, however, forgetting that, without it, there can be no true friendship. We allude not merely to that congeniality of taste and disposition which sometimes attaches us to particular people by some mysterious affinity — this is involuntary, and beyond our own control. But there is a voluntary sympathy, by which we learn to enter fully into the every-day joys and sorrows, difficulties and hopes — of those with whom we are thrown into contact. It is a power which belongs, naturally, but to few, for we are generally too deeply absorbed with ourselves, to pay genuine attention to the affairs of others. But it may be cultivated, and it will go far towards increasing our influence and our ability to do good.

"Sympathy can only be obtained," however, to use words more forcible than our own, "by living with Him who is perfect sympathy, and deeply drinking of that well of life, which flows from His pierced side. It is all in vain to look for it in ourselves — for it is not there. We must go out of ourselves for it, and the surest way to obtain it is, to feel that we are utterly without it. We are thus led to ask of Him, ’who gives to all men liberally, and upbraids not."

Let us, then, earnestly pray that He Himself would teach us to "rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with those who weep." And this not in great things only, but also in small. It is easy, comparatively, to give sympathy in real trials — or in those which we consider such. But when there is a demand for it in what we are pleased to regard as trifles, we are apt to become impatient and hasty. But, without genuine sympathy, it is impossible for us to say what is or is not trifling. That which we would think so — which we would pass by without a moment’s notice — may press darkly and heavily upon the spirit of another, becoming, while it is borne in uncomplaining silence, a burden almost too grievous to be endured. Yet the load may be lightened by the touch of a loving hand, and the cloud dispelled by the magic of a kindly word.

Besides, "Nothing can be a trifle which either tries another person or affects their welfare. So, from the lack of that little act of self-denial of ours, we may have prevented ourselves from the delight and blessing of helping them when we gladly would have done so." Oh, let us beware lest we thus neglect the fragments of work which our Father gives even to the weakest of His children! We must not pass by an open door of usefulness, however lowly it may seem to be, since we do not know where it may ultimately conduct us.

We need scarcely reckon intercessory prayer as among the responsibilities of friendship. It is rather a necessity laid upon us; for, when we kneel to ask blessings for ourselves, it is impossible to forget those whose names are engraved on our heart of hearts. And often our restless and yearning anxieties for them can be stilled in no other way than by laying them at our Father’s feet, and leaving them there. And when long weary miles of distance come between us and them — when love is powerless to guard and guide — then prayer can avail still to throw around them an invisible shield which no evil can break through.

We believe that the blessings of intercessory prayer will never be fully understood until that last great day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, and when we shall become aware how much we have owed to the petitions of some — whom, in the flesh, perhaps, we have scarcely known, but who have been unwearied in their mention of us to the great Intercessor within the veil. How many dangers have been averted! What abundant showers of blessing have been granted! How often have our trembling feet been upheld in the path of life! Let us arouse ourselves to greater diligence in this most important work. It is almost akin to that in which our blessed Lord Himself is now engaged; for it is written of Him that, before His Father’ s throne, "He ever lives to make intercession for us."

Let us examine ourselves — let us search and see whether our consciences acquit us in this matter. Could we say, looking back on life from the brink of the grave, that "intercessory prayer is a duty in which we have failed less than in any other?" It is one which remains to us, when all others are taken away — for even the sick and the aged can be praying missionaries, and then can strengthen those who are bearing the "burden and heat of the day."

Let no sloth, no indolence — hinder us in its performance, or tempt us to reckon it of small moment. Let each friendship supply us with a special errand to the throne of grace. Let us spread before "Our Father, who is in Heaven," the needs, the fears, the sorrows of our loved ones — until our own souls are quickened by the life-giving Spirit, and our hearts glow with love to all the scattered members of the one great family. He to whom we pray will surely give to them and to us an answer of peace, and bestow seven-fold upon ourselves the blessings which we implore for others. With very many whom we frequently meet, it would be impossible for us ever to form friendships. We interchange with them the ordinary courtesies of life, and here the matter ends. Often it is best so that it should be, for only those whose real worth has been tried and proved, should be admitted into the inner circle of affection. Having a "large number of intimate friends," may generally be translated into having very few, or none at all. But even these acquaintances, we must not rashly break off. We do not know to what they may lead. Perhaps they are the materials with which we are by-and-by to perform a most important work. A time of sickness and sorrow may come, when we may be permitted to draw nearer to them, and to speak of the Heavenly Friend who "binds up the broken-hearted." No effort is useless which may aid in preparing the way for this.

Time spent in social fellowship is not wasted, if only we are watchful for opportunities of doing our Master’s work, and if we may thus, hereafter, be enabled to do it more effectually. Let us not sever the most slender link of love, since it may, one day, be the means of leading a sinner home to God. But friendship may become idolatry. The gift may take the place of the Giver, and the heart entwine itself too closely around the things of earth — forgetting that they are but as the "flowers by the wayside." There are some dispositions which seem formed to cling. Like the ivy, they are ever catching to the props which come in their way, and need many a lesson before they can be taught to "cease from man." Such have many trials, which they only know — for this idolatry is what God will not allow, and, however sharp the discipline, He will have it utterly rooted out. "The idols He will utterly abolish!" and, though He may be compelled to use means from which the flesh shrinks back in fear, He will not "spare for the crying" of His children. Now He employs one method, now another; sometimes it is separation by death or distance, and sometimes the estrangement of those who have been long and fondly trusted, but He has always one end in view — to teach us to "arise and depart, for this poor world is not our rest!" It is a needed lesson, for the "nether springs" of earthly love must be dried up before we will seek to the "upper springs" of heavenly consolation. But let us beware how we thus draw down on ourselves our Father’s chastening rod. He "does not afflict willingly," but He is compelled to do it by our obstinacy and perverseness. Let us listen to His warning voice, while yet it sounds but at a distance, lest we compel Him to draw near and arouse us by a stroke which shall make our very heart-strings quiver.

There are, perhaps, few trials greater than that of disappointment in those we love. When we meet after long separation it is most painful to find that their character and feelings and sympathies are changed — while our affection may remain undiminished. We are repulsed and thrown back upon ourselves, and it is well if estrangement does not follow. Yet it is impossible that it should be otherwise. It is impossible that the course of years, or even of months, should pass over and leave no mark behind it — and we must remember that the stream of time, which has borne others forward, has certainly not left us stationary.

We too, are changed from our former selves, so that it is in every way likely that the sensibilities of our friend has received no less a shock than our own.

Besides, here below it is in vain to look for perfect sympathy. One human spirit cannot take the measure of another, or understand language which, to it, is an unknown tongue. If we could once be firmly fixed in this persuasion, we would be saved from much suffering. But the heart is ever going forth from itself — in the restless search for that which earth cannot supply! And it is well, indeed, so that it should be, or the wilderness would be too bright, and the place of our exile would become the place of our rest. But we "seek a better country," where love is perfected, and where the withering breath of disappointment can never come. And even now, we have the utmost sympathy in that abiding Friend who "sticks closer than a brother," and on whose upholding arm we may lean without the fear that it will fail us like the broken reeds of earth. With such provision for the journey, and such a prospect at its close — may we not well rejoice and be glad, even when our eyes are dimmed with weeping? The cloud of sorrow may overshadow us — but faith can discern the brightness of the rainbow which lingers around it, the pledge of unfailing love. When "the eyes of our understanding are enlightened," we learn to distinguish the "Rainbow braided on the wreaths of storm."

Let us trust God’s heart — even in darkness. Let us hope, even when earthly hopes depart. We can never be lonely, never be forsaken, if only we possess the presence and blessing of Him who has left this cheering word as His parting promise to His church, "Surely I am with you always — to the very end of the age!"